The Short Walk to the Long Goodbye
by Waiting for my Soulmate
Summary: Post Judgement Day. T/Z. Suddenly, he is standing in the middle of her living room, and she has a shot trained between his eyes. “ You didn’t say goodbye.” Completed.
1. Chapter 1

Summary: Post Judgement Day

Summary: Post Judgement Day. T/Z. _Suddenly, he is standing in the middle of her living room, and she has a shot trained between his eyes. " You didn't say goodbye."_

Rating: PG13

Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: Exists in the same universe as "The Last Unspoken Summer", but fits canonically other than that. You should probably read TLUS first, as it will make this piece make slightly more sense, but it isn't 100 necessary.

This is a follow up to Judgement Day, but my knowledge of S5 is limited to reviews, recaps and youtube, so forgive me for any inaccuracies.

Thank you, as always, to G for her willingness to read things in the middle of the night, and humouring me with my very special preoccupations.

The Short Walk to the Long Goodbye

The last time there had been a split in the team, she had felt it like a sharp blow to the chest. She had salved that wound with sweat-soaked kisses, murmured touches and midnight-dark assurances that everything would be alright. But last time, Gibbs had chosen to leave, and the rest of them had remained, together. Last time, she hadn't seen Jenny's blood-soaked, broken body every time she closed her eyes.

This time, the separation didn't feel like a blow. If the pain had mirrored a bruise or a break or injury, she would have known what to do, how to make it feel better. But it didn't, and she couldn't, and instead it was more like a black hole, threatening to pull her very existence out into the unknown. It was a fear she hadn't been trained against: panicky and feverish and thick with despair. It lay heavy on her shoulders like a stifling cloak under a desert sun.

She had never expected her 'termination' to end with an order. With a stack of neatly folded sweaters, phone calls with shipping companies and a one-way ticket to Tel Aviv. She had always envisaged crimson blood and wooden box, and her father's lilting bass reciting Kaddish. That, she was prepared for.

She wasn't prepared for this.

Her suitcase lies, its mouth a waiting, gaping chasm, threatening to swallow her whole. She stands as far across the room from it as she can, the length of her back pressed against the flat, cold wall, her body draped in shadow. She still wears her black dress from the funeral and the material swishes around her knees. How can she be leaving now? When she has just found a bakery that makes challah that tastes like her grandmother's? When she has finally routed a new run that she likes? When she has adjusted to the biting North American cold? She has clothes at the dry cleaners, a new lamp arriving on Thursday to replace the one she broke two years ago. There's food in her fridge that will spoil.

Once upon a time she would have turned and dropped these things like hot coals in her wake. A spy and a killer, attachment to material goods made her weak. Attachment to anything made her weak. To places, to things, to people…

She won't think about the people. She won't. She won't hear Abby's soft hiccups, stifled with every ounce of strength she had left, or feel her final desperate hug. The sweet, fake-fruit smell of her Caf-Pows, the metallic tang of gunpowder – simply Abby.

She won't see McGee as he shuffled in front of his desk, her name on his lips, won't feel herself cup his cheek and promise to look out for his newest book as soon as it translates into Hebrew. Won't hear the gentle pat of her palm against his soft, guilt-filled cheek. In her mind, she blocked out the lingering scent of antiseptic and Earl Grey that would forever be Ducky's gracious farewell.

She wouldn't let her mind register the way her thumb still tingled from Gibbs' strong grip (he hadn't touched her like that since that night in his basement, her brother's body spread before them, and when he does it again part of her can almost smell the heady copper. She wonders if he remembers). She won't let herself replay the words still ringing in her ears.

" I will fix this," Gibbs promised, not only to her.

But she definitely wasn't going to let herself think of _him._

She tries to convince herself that she is going home. Home. But the word doesn't seem to want to fit, like pieces of a puzzle out of line. She can barely remember her apartment in Tel Aviv, though she vaguely recalls leaving a man asleep in her bed before she slipped out the door. Had she been heading to Washington then? Or Egypt, or Gaza or Paris? Had that barely-recalled man cared when he had woken up to find her gone?

Contact with her father had been awkward at best and taciturn at worst.

" They are sending you back?" he had asked in Hebrew, and in her distraction it took her a moment to make sense of his words.

" Yes," she answered simply. " I am no longer needed here." The words had rolled around her mouth like broken glass, and when she spat them out she almost expected to see blood. " I arrive in Tel Aviv tomorrow night."

" You will fly back" – her father was not naïve enough to use the word 'home' – "via Kabul. I have some work for you to do there before your return."

He didn't bother saying that this was her chance to prove that she could still do her job, that she hadn't been softened beyond reclamation. In return, she didn't bother to argue.

" Yes Aba," she replied, before being met with a click, and the sound of a dial tone.

Stepping from the shadows, she pulls a long black burqa from the depths of her wardrobe. It has been years since she wore it – wisps of memory of a touch-and-go mission to Ramallah float through her mind – but she holds it up to her body. It will still fit. Normally, she hates to see the world through the small lattice screen, but she knows that for whatever her father has planned her greatest asset will be her anonymity. Her ability to disappear.

She briefly considers just that – turning tail with whatever she can carry, falling off the radar until Gibbs straightens this whole mess out. She knows she can, she's done it before. But part of her just can't bring herself to do it: it seems selfish. From Israel, she can call, she can email. She can let them know she is alive. Running, she can do none of this, and she knows they don't deserve to lose anyone else right now. Gibbs, Ducky, Abby, McGee – she knows they'll bide their time and find a way to make it right. A phrase tickles the inside of her mind – 'getting the band back together'. In her memory, it is not her voice that says it.

She will not think of him.

Leaving the bedroom, she stands in her living room, watching as the starlight filters through the curtains she has not concerned herself to close. Streaks of silver catch on the wooden floorboards, and her eyes are drawn to the patch of discolouration in the hallway. As she stares, she, for some reason, is overwhelmed by a memory: laughing at juggling perfume bottles, turning her head for a moment and hearing an 'oops' followed by a crash. She knows, if she lies down on the floor, she can still breathe the scent of jasmine, lingering in the boards.

She is just wondering why he keeps breaking into her mind when she hears the familiar scratching sound of someone breaking into her apartment. Pulling her weapon from the small of her back (she'll have to collect up all the weapons she scattered around her house - can't leave them for the movers to find), she points it at the door. Her hand is steady, sure. The door opens a crack.

Suddenly, he is standing in the middle of her living room, and she has a shot trained between his eyes.

" Not exactly the kind of goodbye I was hoping for."

He has not stepped inside her apartment for over a year. He has not been inside (_"we have been compromised, we must end this – they had pictures, Tony!")_, but now his presence seems all too familiar. His body pressed against her on the couch, wrapped around her in the bed, sprawled with her on the kitchen floor, surrounded in a sea of scattered magnets. Two years ago, she had known his touch, and two weeks ago it had seemed as though they were heading back towards some kind of normalcy (_"__I was just gonna tousle your hair. Sometimes that makes you smile__")_. Now, in two days, everything has fallen down around their ankles, and she can't help but feel like she's wasted so much time (_"Jenny's dead")_.

" What are you doing here Tony?"

It's a stupid question, because she knows the answer. It's the same reason she had been attempting to force him out of her mind since she left the Navy Yard: because otherwise, something was going to overtake her, and she wouldn't be able to stop herself jumping in her car and not stopping until she found herself face-to-face with him. It seems as though he has caved in first.

When he shrugs, it says nothing and everything, and for a moment she wonders when it became hard to read his expression. " Can I have a beer?" he asks, and at her confused nod, he goes to the fridge and removes one, twisting the top so it falls from his hand, and clatters across the bare kitchen floor. He doesn't move to pick it up. " You didn't say goodbye."

She had hugged Abby, touched McGee, made promises with Gibbs. Tony, she had barely managed to look at, before the pain-not-pain feeling threatened to overwhelm her. When he had left the squad room, she had left the building.

" What did you want me to say?" Because how was she supposed to put three years into a simple salutation? How could she really explain all they had been through and all that they were in words – even with all the languages she spoke?

Played-your-wife-saved-your-life-laughed-with-you-eaten-with-you-slept-with-you-

cleared-your-name-defended-you-been-locked-in-a-box-with-you-lied-to-you-watched-

you-sleep-found-my-father-spying-on-you-watched-you-hurt-been-hurt-by-you-had-my-

heart-broken-by-you-thought-you-hated-me-thought-you-loved-me-thought-you-were-

dying-thought-we'd-lose-you-now-really-losing-you-pain.

At her question he laughs, and the sound seems strangely whole in the vacuum of the room. Laced with knowing and regret and genuine amusement, it seems almost too many things for her to comprehend.

" I don't know," he finally admits. Tipping his head up, he looks her in the eye, and only then does she realise she still has her weapon trained on him. It doesn't seem to faze him. " Did you speak to your father?"

" I am to attend to some business in Afghanistan before returning to Israel," she admits, finally lowering her weapon. She sets it on the coffee table, before dropping onto the sofa, her body weary.

" Another mission he doesn't expect you to come home from?"

The words are bitter, and she doesn't understand why he sounds so angry. " It is possible. I do not have the details yet."

There is a sudden crash, and she flinches before she realises it is simply the sound of his beer bottle hitting against the far wall. Green glass and sudsy foam drip down the neutral paint, and it's all she can do to stare.

" How can you be calm about this?!" he is yelling now, kicking at her coffee table with the ferocity of a caged animal, sending the spindly wood skittering across the room, and if she did not know that she could quite easily subdue him, she might almost be frightened.

Standing from her seat, she places her hands on her hips. The skirt of her dress is soft and smooth to the touch, and she's amazed for a moment that a dress for such purpose should be made with such delicacy. " What would you like me to do Tony? Tell him no?"

" I'd like you to try!" He throws his hands up in emphasis, knocking into the lampshade, making the light swing across the room in a broad, bending arch.

Taking a breath, she pauses, and when she speaks her words are softer. " Either I am in Afghanistan, or I am in Israel. Either way, I am not remaining here. Director Vance has made it clear that I no longer have a position with NCIS." Repeating the statement makes her jaw ache, as if protesting against forming the sounds.

At her words, his face falls, and when he speaks, it is aghast. " And you're okay with that?"

" Of course I'm not! You think I want to be sent away?" Her voice is plaintive and she steps towards him just slightly. She is glad when he doesn't back away. Looking into his face, into his eyes, she is overwhelmed by desperate curiosity. " Why are you mad at me?"

" I'm mad at everyone!" he admits, and she knows that if he had had another bottle in his hand, that one too would have gone flying across the room. His voice is loud but brittle, and she wonders how long he will have to carry on shouting for the neighbours to complain. " I'm mad at you for sounding like you don't care, I'm mad at your father for sending you off to God-knows-where again, I'm mad at Vance for making you go!"

She does not realise how close he has stepped up to her until he is a scant foot away, and she can practically feel the energy radiating off of him. " I'm mad at Gibbs. Hell, I'm even mad at Jenny, and what kind of person does that make me?"

Her voice is barely a whisper when she finally makes a sound, and though she wants to reach out and touch him – because she recognises that desperate, broken quality in him – she fights to keep her hands down by her sides. At his words, visions of blood pooling in the desert heat come unbidden to her mind, and she can't quite quell the shudder. " Why are you mad at Jenny?"

" For Le Grenouille!" he shouts, and at once she understands. Understands his anger, understands his words, understands what he is doing here. " I'm mad at her for making me waste so much time. For making me keep secrets. For making you hate me. I'm mad at Gibbs for Rule 12. I'm mad at both of them for not making whatever they had in Paris work out!"

" Tony…"

Finally, it is as though he has run out of anger, and he seems to deflate right in front of her. " And she's dead, and I hate her for dying." She knows they both feel guilt and shame over what happened, and combined with grief it makes for a sickly pallet. " And I'm mad 'cause she's gone, and I couldn't save her. And I have to leave. And you're being sent away. And I might never see you again."

His hand is cupping her cheek, and threading through her hair, and the touch is so familiar that she can't pull away. She marvels for a moment that he still smells the same. " Tony - " She doesn't know whether she wants him to stop, or hold her closer, but at the sound of his name, he stares her square in the eye.

" We were happy, that summer, weren't we?"

Exhaling, she knows she cannot lie. " We were. But Tony - "

" Don't," he murmurs, and she can hear the pleading in his tone - just let him have this. In acquiescence, she says nothing, leaning into his touch and sighing deeply when his lips inevitably brush against her own ("nothing is inevitable").

There is nothing as clichéd as music or fireworks; there is simply the two of them, blighted by fear and grief and a longing to not make the same mistakes as the people who came before them. Even knowing it may be just for one night ("but Gibbs promised to make it right and he doesn't back out on a promise") they relish the touch and taste of one another, and let their bodies speak words of apology and reconciliation that somehow, in the last year, their mouths have not been able to.

They make a hundred years exist in one night, a hundred pasts and a hundred futures, and countless presents live between the mussed cool-cotton sheets. Every touch committed to memory, every eyelash and freckle counted. Every word in every language spoken, so they can avoid the regret of not knowing.

In tonight is everything. In tomorrow, they begin the short walk to the long goodbye.


	2. Chapter 2

He doesn't think he will ever get used to the smell of brine

He doesn't think he will ever get used to the smell of brine. The brutal, salty air whips in his face, messing his hair, settling in the stubble he hasn't bothered to shave clean. With no one here to check on him, yell at him, head slap him, he has settled into an eerie pace of nothingness.

His days are filled with reams of paperwork. He plays solitaire on his computer, but it's not as much fun when it isn't contraband. Without the threat that McGee might McTattle on him, the game has lost part of its appeal. When he reports aboard, even the Captain looks like he doesn't know what to do with him. He sends Tony off to the office that isn't much more than a store cupboard and expects him to keep himself busy.

Once upon a time, he would have passed the hours by watching all the woman parade down the hallway in their well-pressed uniforms. Once upon a time, that would have sufficed. But now, he cannot concentrate on the curvy blonde with the armful of files, or the snobby, statuesque brunette, or the raven-haired beauty with the infectious giggle. No, instead, all he can think about is a bouncing pair of jet-black pigtails that he can no longer tug, a growing out, sunset-red crop that he will never again gossip about, and a head of long brunette curls (he imagines them still mussed from sleep) now lost to him somewhere beyond the horizon.

Tony hasn't left his phone for a moment since he got on board. He keeps it shoved in his pocket, as though at any moment it might start buzzing, a summons back to his real life. In truth, there is no signal this far out into the ocean, and so any vibrating he hears from his phone is only in his head. Occasionally, he flips the phone open long enough to flick through some of the photos – Abby, arms around McGee's neck, grinning wide in all of her monochrome gorgeousness, McGee caught somewhere between shocked at the probably sudden attack and enthused to have Abby pressed so close. Both have emailed Tony almost every day since he had been on board, always the same message. Don't worry, they say. Gibbs will fix this. He'll make things right.

Sometimes, when he's alone in his office, listening to the whirring engines and the gentle rocking of the ship, he can almost believe them.

Gibbs has been in touch only once. Sit tight DiNozzo, he said, but Tony recognised it as an order. Gibbs didn't bother repeating the assurances he had only given once, as they stood scattered around the bullpen, unmoving mannequins swathed in lengths of black. Tony had simply nodded his agreement, the promise that he would obey. He'll play the good little soldier, strong warrior, chin-up-and-do-as-you're-told for as long as it is asked of him: until he grows old and craggy, fifty years of sea-spray in his face. According to the religion that he barely remembers from childhood, it will take that long for him to pay his penance anyways.

In the day, he keeps himself busy. Thefts of petty objects, sexual harassment claims (is that a tongue brushing against his cheek?), and the occasional assault make up his time. In the evenings, after shovelling down a bowlful of whatever rubber-laced food they are serving that night, he wanders up top, on deck, and lets the freezing wind burn his face. He stands there until his skin is raw, watching the sunset over the water. In the back of his mind, the effusion of crimson light screams at him, (bullets rip through forehead, an explosion slams through the clear night sky, still-warm blood soaks into a dry desert floor). He stands there until everything is dark, and the only lights are the ones glaring at him from the hull of the ship.

At night, sometimes he dreams of Jenny, and wonders if he could have done things differently. The rest of the time, he dreams of a dark, distant figure in an empty desert, and wakes up sweating and feeling cripplingly alone.

He has not heard from her.

That morning, that last morning in reality, he had slipped from her room with a final, desperate kiss stolen from her lips. He wonders if he'll ever stop being haunted by her eyes, her hair, by the scent of her. Despite being hundreds of miles and almost two months apart, sometimes he swears she lingers on his body, on his things.

But she is not here now. No, he's here alone, she's disappeared somewhere in the Middle East, and as of Abby's 2pm email, no one has heard from her.

The people on board generally ignore him. At first, a few of them try. Try to be friendly, Try to include him. He even makes an effort himself: he goes to a few poker games and wins all their money, but it isn't this that makes him unpopular. No, it's something else, something intangible or ineffable, something that hangs about him like a cloud. Something that makes them all skirt around him in the hallways, leave the seat next to him free at chow. Maybe it's just that he's so obviously alone here, and doesn't try not to be.

Sometimes when he's in his bunk, he makes jokes about movies in his head, and waits to hear someone laugh. Then, he seriously wonders if he's going crazy.

At his first meeting with the ship's physician, she listens to his chest and pulls back with a worried expression. When he explains about the plague, she looks at him as though he really is crazy. Her bedside manner is gentler than Ducky's, but she has no stories to tell, and Tony realises he never did hear the end of the one about Ducky, Jenny, Gibbs and the rowboat across the Atlantic.

The doctor tells him to stay off deck at night – the cold air is irritating his lungs. He makes a point of ignoring her. I'm fine, is all he says, and the words sound eerily familiar.

Laying in his bunk – and how he misses his Egyptian cotton sheets – he crosses his arms behind his head and stares at the ceiling. He's sick of the sight of sterile grey. Closing his eyes, he allows himself to drift back to that last night before he walked up the gangplank. How, in those few hours of touch and taste and sweat and heat, he had actually allowed himself to think that it all was going to work out.

He's starting to wonder how it's going to end.


	3. Chapter 3

The soft sand shifts under her feet, but she walks steadily, taking small, consistent steps

The soft sand shifts under her feet, but she walks steadily, taking small, consistent steps. In fitting with the area, she keeps her head turned down, though no one really watches her. A man walks along three paces in front, but no one really looks at him either. The market area is busy, and rich with the smell of spoiling produce. In the waning sun, women - their hair and faces covered - study the seller's wares, bruising the flesh of the soft fruits with bony fingers. She walks past them, murmuring her pardons as she ricochets against the throng. They don't seem to notice.

The long abaya covers her whole body, making her purposefully shapeless (she can only imagine what Tony would say if he saw her dressed like this), but for once she doesn't mind. The handgun at the small of her back, the backup at her ankle and the knife at her waist for once are in no danger of being revealed.

As she wends her way down the smaller streets leading away from the centre of the town, the man in front of her doesn't break his stride. The buildings around close in, and on the side of the streets there are many small alcoves, swathed in unbroken shadows. Walking, keeping her chin tipped to her chest, she allows herself to think. The moon is rising and she knows that time is of the essence.

It has been two months since her untimely departure from Washington, and still, in these quiet moments, it plays on her mind. She thinks of their words, and midnight, sweet-skinned touches, and watching the runway from National disappear beneath her as she rose into the skies. How far removed it seems from this strange, desert land she finds herself in.

She has not yet made it back to Tel Aviv. Not yet made contact with those people she has left behind. Her father's 'business', such as it is, has meant she had to spend time slowly adapting to the area. Learning once again how to walk in the abaya (with small, fluttering steps, delicate and light and reminiscent of her dancing days) and to see through the grille of the chadri (she loses her balance more than once, and constantly feels as though someone could be sneaking up on her blind spot). On her arrival in Kabul, she had made contact with two other Komemiute officers already placed in the city, and been enfolded into their deep cover: newly widowed sister, recently of Laghman Province.

It is her 'brother' who accompanies her now.

At the far end of a deserted ally, he stops walking, and turns to her. With his heavy dark beard and rough, desert-browned skin, Officer Azim Zahavi looks every bit his part. He frightens her, just slightly, because with the half-Arab, half-Israeli looks, certain expressions he pulls remind her unerringly of Ari. The two men had even known each other once, in Israel, a lifetime ago. But Azim has not turned from the cause, and his mother still lives in a small town just south of Jerusalem.

" Isra?" His voice is a murmur in the empty streets as he speaks the name of her new identity, and she steps up next to him, her dark blue burka barely seen in the night-light.

Looking into the empty street, she sees why Azim has stopped. In the ally in front of them, a man sits outside his house on a stool, whittling some wood with a small penknife. His muscular, wiry body is hidden mostly under a tunic, but she has studied him enough to know it hides a dangerous knot of power.

" Him?" Azim asks, his voice barely sounding.

" Him," she assures. " I will meet you at the rendezvous."

She likes Azim for his stoicism. He simply nods, waiting for her to avail herself of the abaya before moving. " You will not have much time," he reminds her, collecting up the folds of material.

Looking up at him, her long curls pulled back from her face, she now looks much more the legendary assassin that he had heard about before this assignment. She fingers the heavy, metal barrel at her waist. " This will not take long."

There are no more words. Azim simply turns, and walks back up the alleyway, his cover to maintain.

Suddenly, she is alone in the shadows. She crouches, carefully, listening to the slow, methodical sound of the knife scraping the flesh of the wood. For a moment, as the smell of the sawdust hits her, she is reminded of Gibbs. Has he finished his boat yet, she wonders? Set her on the ocean, a labour of love finally left to float away?

In the evening-silent quiet street, the man coughs, bringing her attention back to him. Standing, slowly, she lets her body unwind, the kinks falling away from her bones, her muscles toned and taut and ready. Bitterness creeps up the back of her throat, and she recognises the taste as adrenalin. She counts her heartbeats before taking a step.

The man doesn't even move. He is leaning on his stool, back against the wall, watching only the flicking pieces of tinder under the levelling graze of the knife. Unsheathing her own knife from her waist, she feels as though she can hear the ringing of the blade in the night air, but all remains silent. She steps towards him.

The act itself begins without fanfare. Without a word, she pounces from the shadows, pushing him to the dusty earth without a sound, save the gentle thump of his body against the ground. With a precision stroke, she presses the gleaming silver blade against his throat. The weight of her body holds him down, but he struggles against her. " For Israel," she whispers harshly in Arabic, her voice a guttural gasp, breaking the night silence.

There is a second, where he stares her straight in the eyes, that he almost seems surprised. Then suddenly, there is a flash of pain in her right thigh, and his gaze seems much more knowing. " Fuck Israel," he spits back, malevolent even in the moments before death.

With a slash of her knife, there are no more words, and as she stumbles out of the alleyway, his head hangs limply on his shoulders.

His wide, vacant eyes stare after her, as she staggers into the darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

On just-another-Tuesday, two and a half months into his salt-water purgatory, he is woken up by the sound of sharp rapping at

On just-another-Tuesday, two and a half months into his salt-water purgatory, he is woken up by the sound of sharp rapping at his door. His status on the ship affords him a tiny, port-hole window in his room, and so by the time he cracks an eyelid, he can tell it is too early for company. It is still dark out, and on the crest of the ocean, the lack of light is telling.

" Yeah?" His voice is weak and croaky, and he coughs a few times as he sits up. The bed creaks a warning as he shifts his body against the thin layer of mattress and springs. " Come in."

The door opens, and he is met by the owl-like features of his…assistant? Secretary? Slave? Whatever her designation, Midshipman Ramona Adler, with her overly wide eyes and wispy, sand-coloured hair, has been the only person to make regular conversation with Tony since his arrival on the ship. Barely twenty-three, she has been assigned to assist him in the Investigative Office, mainly playing clerk for all his files and paperwork. In truth, she has been playing clerk just as much to his sanity.

" Agent DiNozzo? Sir?" Her voice is soft, but not hesitant, and laced with something that sounds almost like concern. Despite the gruff demeanour he has been channelling since his arrival on board (and he wonders who he learned that from), Adler has not seemed timid for a second. In truth, for the way she runs him, she reminds him almost inexcusably of his Nona DiNozzo, save she weighs barely 100 pounds, is Episcopalian, and, he is sure, has never made cannolli in her life.

This power over him is proved when he looks up to find her standing, her arms crossed tellingly over the chest of her tan-coloured uniform, and her brows knotted into a frown. With her pale brown eyes, and mousy brown-blonde hair pulled back from her colourless face, she seems to merge into a large swathe of beige. For a moment, Tony thinks it makes a nice change from the bulk-standard grey, until he registers the look on her face.

" Can I help you, Midshipman?"

She looks at her watch, and then at him, and her glare is pointed. " You have a call scheduled for this morning. 'Bout five minutes from now in fact. When I didn't find you in the office, I was worried. I told you 'bout it last night." Her voice holds a lingering Southern drawl from her formative years spent slumming around Charleston, but it does nothing to cut her accusatory tone.

Pulling himself out of bed (stifling another round of coughing – god, he hates cold mornings), he grabs for a shirt, pulling it on over bare shoulders. Realising he is only in his boxers, he stares at her. " Do you mind?"

" No." She is abrupt, and meets his stare before sighing and turning her back, allowing him to finish dressing in some semblance of privacy.

For a moment, he wonders if Ramona only does these things just to rile him, to see if there really is any emotion left in the quiet, distant man he seems to have become. Briefly, he recognises the tactic, and his memory flickers back to Washington: evidence garage, Abby in a red jumpsuit, double head-slapping McGee - he's not Gibbs if he's nice. Before he can continue the memory, getting to his favourite part (khaki clad body and swaying hips. "I was just…" – amused, smouldering smile - " Having phone sex?"), he is pulled back to the reality of his small room.

" Just thought you wouldn't want to miss this call, Sir," Adler continues, as though she has never stopped talking, and her arms swing almost childishly at her sides as she waits. " Captain said whoever scheduled it had been mighty insistent they need to talk to you."

Finally, he is dressed, pulling at the knot of his tie until it is straight. He knows on the ship he could get away with dressing down, but the formality of his clothes give him some semblance of structure, or normality. " Who scheduled it?"

Walking out of the room and along the low, cavernous corridors, he tries to remember to duck his head to avoid hitting the low hanging beams above. Adler, a half-step behind him, has no such problem and seems to wend through the innards of the ship with ease. Sometimes he is surprised by her almost-grace. " Didn't ask Sir, didn't take the call. Figured it weren't any of my business."

He snorts a laugh, and the sensation is almost unfamiliar. " That's a first."

She shoots him a look that he knows she must have perfected in the years of being somebody's kid-sister, but then softens it when he raises a knowing eyebrow. " It was a woman, that's all I know. She was being fair taciturn. Just said she didn't have much time, and she needed to talk to you today, 5am our time." This admission is accompanied by a shrug that is almost apologetic, as though she is sorry she did not glean more information in her few minutes of eavesdropping.

He does not offer forgiveness, though, because at her words, his mind begins racing and his heartbeat quickens. Who would call him in anti-social hours, in the middle of the night, being curt and uninviting? Who would have to plan a time when she would be able to communicate? Who would have been as desperate to talk to him, as he was to her?

In his office the phone rings. Adler reaches for it, as she usually does, but he bats her hand out of the way and snatches up the receiver himself. The line crackles.

" Special Agent DiNozzo," he answers formally, but his gut clenches and churns as he waits for a reply. He can almost hear her voice, teasing him, angry with him, encouraging him as he works his lips over her skin.

There is a pause, more static, and then, " Tony?"

It makes him almost sick, because at the sound of Abby's voice, all he can feel is disappointment. " Hey Abs."

There is a scuffle in the background, and he hears her partly cover her end of the phone. Her exclamation to the room is muffled, but he makes it out. " McGee! Timmy, I got him!" When she turns back to the receiver, her words are clear but her voice is laced with what Tony recognises as longing and over-caffeination. " How are you? Are you okay? Is it awful? You sound so strange in your emails."

" I'm peachy Abby," he lies, knowing that Adler is still lurking at the back of the office, pretending to sort through files for the day but he knows she is actually straining to listen in on his conversation. The effort almost makes him smile. " How's life as a land-lubber?"

Her words are a rush, a babble of sentiment, and he's surprised by how homesick it makes him. " It's too weird Tony. That's why I'm calling. Gibbs' hates his new team: they're all dull and don't know about the rules. He hasn't head-slapped them once!" At this news, Tony runs a hand unconsciously up to the back of his head, smoothing the hair that hasn't, for the last five years, lain quite flat. " And McGee's over in Cyber Crimes and I went over there to pick him up for lunch and they all looked at me like I was some kind of freak! And no one comes to visit me any more, and Ducky's talking about retiring, and you're not here, and Ziva's not here, and no one knows where she is."

There is finally a long enough pause that he can process her words, and it makes him sit up straight in his chair. " What do you mean, 'no one knows where she is'. Mossad know exactly where she is." He doesn't mention her position, because he knows she didn't tell anyone else about her mission before her departure.

Over the line, he can hear the furious suck of liquid up a disagreeable straw. " Tony they don't! They called Vance last night. Apparently she was on a mission and was supposed to make contact with them two weeks ago. No one's heard from her."

At her words, his mind goes blank for a minute, and his lungs seem to stop taking in oxygen. Stars burst at the periphery of his vision, and he has to clutch the edge of his desk to stop himself swaying. " She's missing?"

" They wanted to know if she had made contact with any of us, but I haven't heard from her and neither has McGee. And ever Gibbs seems worried Tony and Gibbs is never worried. And he said to call you in case she had talked to you…" Her voice is almost hopeful, and Tony hates to be the one to break the little bubble of optimism welling inside her.

He shakes his head, dejected. " I haven't spoken to her since the morning I reported on board. " He doesn't mention that he slipped out of her apartment before dawn, or since then there have been more than a few nights where she has haunted his dreams, and in his mind, they have spent long hours together doing much more than talking.

On the other end of the line, Abby sounds almost crushed, and he thinks he may be able to hear tears creeping into her voice. " I thought if she had…you would have said…she can't be…not so soon after…" Her voice crumples, and for almost a minute Tony is only met with the sound of sniffling, gothic tears.

When he thinks he just about can't take any more, he hears the receiver being picked up. " DiNozzo?"

" Probie." He knows the relief is obvious in his voice. He can't handle the crying right now, it brings back memories that are, at the moment, far too fresh.

" I take it you haven't heard anything from Ziva?" He too sounds dejected, but Tony can't help but be impressed by how well he hides his disappointment.

He shakes his head again, even though he knows that McGee can't see him. " Not a word. You've tried tracking her cell-phone?"

There is a sigh on the other end of the line. "And her passport and her bank accounts. Nothing. Last thing we know is that she left National travelling on her own passport. There's no sign of her arriving anywhere after that."

There is an inflection in his voice that piques Tony's interest. " Did Mossad tell you that?"

McGee pauses. " Not exactly."

" McGee!" his voice is amused, which, given the circumstances, is almost jarring. He can feel Adler's eyes on the back of his neck as she fiddles with things in the filing cabinet. She has probably never heard him speak in this tone before. " Did you go snooping at INTERPOL again?"

There is another pause. " Maybe."

Tony would normally laugh, call him 'McHacker', and make an obscure reference to Mission Impossible, but today he just can't quite seem to muster the energy. Despite being proud of McGee's extra-curricular activities, in truth, he can't get his mind off of the fact that Ziva is most likely lost somewhere, alone in the desert.

" There's no sign of her?" he echoes, and saying the words out loud makes it seem far too real. He knows the worry in his voice must be obvious, because Adler has given up her pretence of searching through files, and has perched on the desk next to him. She stretches out a hand, laying it briefly on his shoulder, and he is ridiculously grateful for the moment of solidarity.

McGee's voice itself is hollow, his tone one of weariness. " No," he admits, but then adds on, " But this is Ziva, remember? She'll probably turn up in a few days with a story about kicking butt in Rio." It is a pedestrian attempt at assurance, but Tony smiles none the less.

There is a long pause, then, " You'll call, if you hear anything?" He doesn't say when they find her body, but both men know the undercurrent of his words.

Neither man bothers to say goodbye; they simply end their conversation with a laying down of receivers and the sound of dial tones. Only after Adler has taken a good look at him, and scuttled off to find him some strong coffee, and he has laid his head down on his desk does Tony realise…

This is the first conversation where no one has promised that it's all going to end up okay.


	5. Chapter 5

The wound is infected, she is fairly sure of that

The wound is infected, she is fairly sure of that. As she throws up for the third time in as many minutes, she curses herself. One false move, one moment of laxness has ended her up here, thousands of miles from Tel Aviv, secretly huddled in the back of a stacked cargo truck. Every so often, it takes a corner too sharply, and boxes topple down from their precarious perch, twice only missing her by a matter of inches.

Her clothes cling to her. It has been almost two weeks since she bathed, and the travelling, combined with the encroaching sickness, has left a sheen of perspiration on her body that will not abate. She runs a hand along her brow and it comes back damp.

In the musty light of the truck, she peels back the material covering her left thigh, and almost grimaces at the sight. The skin surrounding the gash is swollen and red, and unpleasant fluids leaks from the centre of the wound. She is thankful that his aim was poor, or else she knows she could have bled to death in minutes. As it is, blood loss has left her pale and weak, and she knows it is only a matter of time before she collapses completely.

In two weeks, she has made it as far as the Russia/Kazakhstan border. She only needs to make it as far inside the country as Samara, where she recalls there is a safe house she can rest in. In her head she calculates it should only take a few more hours. She needs to call for help, but she doesn't want her father to think she's failed. She doesn't want to prove him right. Though as she throws up again, she thinks she might have no choice.

Her head lolls back against the pile of boxes, and she lets out a low moan as the driver seems to hit every pothole in the road. She should have thrown him out and driven herself, she thinks, at least they would have got there faster.

Oh, how she misses Ducky in this moment. As she closes her eyes against the rising nausea, she thinks about the expression he would wear if he could see her now. Been in the wars I see, he would banter, the worry in his eyes hidden by a slight teasing twinkle. He would pat one of the cold, autopsy benches and help her up with a strength belying his age. Hop up here, there's a girl. Now then, let's have a look and see what we can do before Jethro comes down here and starts yelling at you to take better care of yourself. In her mind she can almost feel his hand on her shoulder.

" Miss?"

The voice is heavily accented and speaks in Russian, and as he shakes her awake (when had she fallen asleep?) the truck driver looks utterly relieved to find that she is still breathing. She theories that she must look as bad as she feels. " Miss, we have crossed the border. We should arrive in Samara in only few hours. You will be alright until then?"

Since picking her up on the side of the road, battered and still bleeding, he has been unerringly kind, letting her stow away among his cargo, checking every few hours that she is still alive. He could have been arrested for knowingly transporting people across the border. As it is, she can offer him no money as a reward, and instead has thrown up all over the floor of his truck.

" Yes I will be fine," she promises, though she is met with a very sceptical look. " Thank you, Viktor, for your help."

Abated, he nods, and returns to the cab of the truck. She hears the key turn, and the engine once again roar to life. The dull vibration spreads through her body, and she curls up, resting her head on her bended knees, ignoring the screaming fire of her wound. I've had worse, she keeps telling herself. Much worse.

Though she knows she is still sweating, her body wracks with shivers, and she tries to curl herself into the smallest shape she can. She knows it's only sickness, but she hasn't felt this cold in a long time. A memory flickers through her mind: trapped in a hold, surrounded by boxes, plummeting temperature. But last time she hadn't been alone. Last time they had been able to create a plan. Last time, there had been someone to come and rescue her.

It's not that she hasn't tried to come up with a plan. In fact, she has come up with a plan, much as it is – get as far away from Afghanistan as she can. She knows, thanks to his knife, that her blood was left at the scene of the crime, and that somehow, if they wanted to, they could trace it back to her. This has never happened before, and she rues herself her clumsiness. Since that moment, she had started running and hadn't stopped, not even stopping long enough to meet Azim at the rendezvous. She wonders if he went looking for her. Did he find the body in the alley? Did he find the knife? Had he broken cover long enough to let Mossad know she was missing?

She had started running, and she hasn't stopped.

It is almost another half a day until they reach Samara, and by the time they arrive she is so weak she can barely walk. But still, she collects up her weapons and exits the truck, thanking Viktor in mumbled, broken Russian, half recalled from a brain refusing to function as it should. His look is primarily one of concern, but he is not sad to see her go. A dead body in the back of his truck would raise suspicions after all.

It is the middle of the night as she wends her way through the city, mainly sticking to the shadows. When two men catch her in their sight, they simply assume she has imbibed too much, and they jeer as she stumbles across the pavement, before carrying on their way.

She holds herself up by the walls of the buildings, and can't help but think back to the last time she was in Eastern Europe. How different it had been then.

" Get in the car."

" Ziva, I don't want to die."

" They are not following us, I am sure. Get in the car."

" It's not them I'm worried about. When you drove in Dubrovnik we nearly died."

" If I had not, Jen, we would have."

For a moment the grief seems absurdly fresh, and she is almost overwhelmed by it. She trips, falling hard against the wall, and for a moment she cannot catch her breath. Squeezing her eyes shut, she sighs, slowly, and uses her fingers to pull her along the side of the building. The safe house isn't far, she knows. Just a couple more streets and she'll be there.

The palms of her hands are grazed and bloody, her body subject to a creeping infection, and her thigh blazes as though she has been burned. She concentrates on every step, unaware of the time of day or the level of light, though it is the middle of the night and her pathway is lit only by subtle streetlamps and the silver sheen of the moon. She is protected by the darkness, and as she finally catches sight of the memorized painted door, it is all she can do not to break down with relief. But she is Mossad, and she will not cry, even trailing blood and thousands of miles from home. Even alone, she will stay strong.

There is no key – with their training it would almost seem gauche – so she picks the lock with an un-coordinated hand. She does not believe she has had this much trouble unlocking a door since the night after her head had been smashed on the concrete floor of a Washington warehouse, and then glued back together in the ER. That night, she had eventually abated, and allowed Tony to unlock the door for her. Today, she does not have that luxury, and so pushes herself until she hears the telltale 'click'.

As though in stereo, she hears another familiar cocking 'click', followed by another. But her body is so weary, that as the door swings open, she falls against it, and does not stop falling until her body hits the floor, lying prostrate.

Fever and exhaustion overwhelm her, and her eyelids flutter against her cheek. She thinks she hears a noise, though she hasn't the strength left to tilt her head. Suddenly, there is movement in the corner of her vision. Footsteps.

" Oh my God. Ziva!"


	6. Chapter 6

He can hardly move during the days

He can hardly move during the days. He sits at his desk, staring at piles of paper that he can barely shift. There seems little point. No scuffles go un-noted, no complaints unheard, but he moves automatically, unthinking. Even the thought of the coming Liberty in sunny summery Spain does nothing to buoy him. Though his body adjusted to the gentle swaying of the ship some months ago, now he is daily gripped by nausea, and locks himself in his office for hours at a time.

Sometimes, when he is swayed to such fits of behaviour, Midshipman Adler presses her ear to the door and listens. It's not that she's afraid he'll do anything stupid, it's just that she's living in the dark where he is concerned, catches only glimpses of his life and who he is, between miles and miles of shadow. She presses her ear to the door, and hears his murmured railing.

" My Mom, Kate, Paula, Jenny and now Ziva? Is this supposed to be some kind of joke? I can't care about any woman, in any way or you'll take her away from me?"

Usually, she lets him continue his arguments with God or whomever he addresses them to until he wears himself out, but today she clutches a message tight in her fist that has to be delivered. Without even a second thought, she jimmies open the office lock with an old file folder.

When she pushes open the door, she finds him standing, his arms braced against his desk and his head hanging down. He lets out a deep, cavernous sigh, and it makes her shiver. She coughs, lightly, subtly, and though she suspects him to start, he simply cocks a head and looks at her over his shoulder. " I thought I locked that door."

" You did." She brushes past him, booting up the computer that he has yet to turn on, stacking his files and moving the empty coffee cups that have been scattered around the office, despite his protests that he really doesn't like coffee.

" You want to tell me how you got in here?" He has one eyebrow raised in what she has come to recognise as his 'serious investigator' expression.

It does not faze her, however, and she simply crosses her arms over her chest and studies him with an equally challenging air. " No. You want to tell me why you're mad at God?"

She expects him to blow her off, to ignore the question as he has done every other slightly personal enquiry she's made in these two months (who's the girl in the picture? Who was the girl on the phone? Why'd they stick you out here, what you do, kill someone?), but today, instead of avoiding, he sighs, and drops into his chair. Leaning back, he props his feet up on his desk. " He keeps screwing with me."

Ramona, for a moment, almost grins, until she realises he is serious. " God is screwing with you. God?" Her echo is incredulous.

" Does that seem self-aggrandizing to you?"

She can't help but be honest. " A little."

" I have good evidence."

Setting herself on the desk, she pulls some files from under the edge of her thigh and stacks them on top of the computer's buzzing screen. Fixing her strange, pale gaze on him, she shrugs one shoulder. " Shoot then."

There is a moment where she thinks he might change his mind and send her away with a brusque word and a wave of his hand. He stares at the ceiling, and folds his arms behind his head, sighing deeply. He avoids eye contact with her. " When I was ten, my mother got cancer. They found it late, and within a matter of months she was so sick she couldn't even hold down gin, which, if you knew my mom, was unheard of. She died three days before my eleventh birthday." He pauses, expecting her to comment, but she just remains sitting, silent, allowing him to continue. " My second partner at NCIS was called Kate. She was smart, annoying, puritanical…special. She was my friend. Three years ago we were involved in an anti-terrorist operation and she…she was shot and…she died."

He doesn't notice that Ramona had shuffled along the desk until her skinny calf is pressed against his knee. It's a friendly, comforting gesture, and almost makes him smile. He presses on. " There was another agent. Paula. We were…" he stalls for a second unsure of how to describe it.

" Involved?" Ramona's voice is surprisingly understanding, and for a moment she seems much older then her twenty-three years.

" She hated me," Tony explains in the only way he knows.

With a snort, Ramona rolls her eyes. " Definitely involved."

" We had been, I guess…a long time ago. And, uh, we were on an investigation last year and she got caught in an explosion. Saved my life. Saved a bunch of our lives actually. Died a hero." The words are tinged with sarcasm and regret, but buoyed with a little trace of pride.

Leaning back on her hands, Ramona nods her head. " Doesn't make it any easier does it?" He recognises the knowledge in her tone, and with a nudge of his knee asks the silent question. She answers with a one-shouldered shrug and her characteristic bluntness. " My brother Kieran died in Iraq. Helicopter pilot. They were fired on from the ground and the bullets went through the hull and into him. That was…" she thinks for a minute, biting her lip gently. " Four years ago September." She looks Tony square in the eye and her forthrightness almost makes him push back from the desk. " Dying like a hero doesn't make it any easier," she repeats. " What's the rest?"

" The rest?"

" Of your evidence, Special Agent; you need to keep going. God screwing you over is a pretty big allegation."

He barks a laugh and pushes on. " There's Jenny."

" Jenny?"

" My boss." The laugh that only a moment ago seemed to burst from his body falters on his lips, and his stomach once again begins to churn. Copper and sulphur tickle his reminiscence. " Three months ago she got caught in a shootout in the middle of an investigation." He licks his lips, allowing the words of truth to emerge. " I was supposed to be on her protection detail."

Ramona is quiet for a long minute, but he doesn't feel her silence as a reprimand. Her nature is one of slowness, like honey and deep consideration. " I don't know," she eventually utters, swinging her legs beneath her. " Sounds pretty bad. Think I'd ask for my money back." The words sound flippant, but her tone is laced with understanding. She cocks her head. " Who's Ziva?"

" Ziva?" Hearing her name spoken is like a punch to the gut, and he flicks his gaze away at the sound.

" Yep." She nods her head. " She was the last one you listed to God. The one your friends talked about on the phone. The one you talk about in your sleep." Off of his incredulous expression, she explains, " When you think you're alone you fall asleep at your desk 'bout three times a week. And I don't exactly need a key to get into the office."

He is amused by her and a little astounded. Mostly, he wishes that he had never allowed her to start this conversation, because they have now ended up where he does not wish to be. His mind skates and skirts over images that he has, since Abby's phone call, been attempting to push to the back of his head; to hide away, and cover over with black cloths. " Ziva is…"

He isn't sure where to begin describing her. What she was like when he first met her? What she's like when she's angry, what she's like when she laughs? What she was like that Summer? Or the months that followed? What it felt like to hurt her? To make things up to her, and watch her as they kissed? To walk out and leave her? What it's like not knowing if she's alive or dead?

" Ziva is my partner. Or was, until I got stuck out here."

" She still in Washington?" Ramona, by this point, has snooped enough to know most of his professional history. Being in charge of the files does have its perks, after all.

She isn't surprised, however, when Tony shakes his head. " Not exactly. When I got sent out here they shipped her butt home."

" Home?"

" Israel. By way of God-knows-where, Middle East." She is the first person that Tony has admitted that knowledge to – that her was aware of Ziva's mission - but he knows it isn't likely to go any further. Ramona may be a snoop, and a tad devious, but he cannot fault her loyalty.

She cocks her head, picking imagined lint off of the knee of her uniform slacks. She brushes the material with the back of her hand. " She's the one that's missing?" He knows that she listens in on his calls, so isn't surprised by this leap of logic. " The one that INTERPOL can't trace?"

" She's the one. Has a tendency to disappear off the radar."

" If she has a tendency, then why are you worried?" Ramona's logic seems faultless, and he's surprised by how open her face is. As though she wishes to share this endless stream of hope with him, make his heart somehow lighter.

But he knows the truth: he can feel it in his gut. Glaring wasn't the only thing he had learned from Gibbs. " She should have made contact by now. She should have called. And she said she'd never let them take her alive."

It's this knowledge that brings an end to the conversation. To have finally spoken the words makes them too big – they fill the large room and squeeze out all the free space, making Tony feel like there isn't enough room to breathe. He traces the outline of the phone in his pocket. " She should have called."

In the silence, Ramona slinks down from the desk, and her hand is a fleeting benediction on his shoulder. " She still might," she promises in her non-nonsense way, and he is almost frustrated by the amount of hope apparent in her voice. Frustrated, and a little bit grateful. " Just give her some time."

" It's been almost three months."

At the words, Ramona says nothing. Even in her sensible hope, and despite her limited years, she knows a death sentence when she hears one.


	7. Chapter 7

A damp washcloth rouses her out of a half-sleep

A damp washcloth rouses her out of a half-sleep. In fact, she isn't sure whether she's been asleep or unconscious, but the water feels ridiculously good against her still-burning skin. She opens her eyes, blinking hazily, the effort seeming far greater than it normally does. Weak sunlight is coming through from somewhere – a window? – and it's only when she realises this that she also realises she is no longer face down on a rickety wooden floor. Instead, she finds herself propped against a stack of half-plumped pillows, a blanket pulled over her body.

She is not alone.

When she realises this she panics, still not coherent enough to understand where she is or exactly what is happening. It feels similar to the time she and Jenny crashed the wedding in Warsaw and drank all that vodka… Her head feels the same as it did that day, and her mouth is dry and coarse. She lunges for where her gun normally would be, but finds her waistband empty. In fact, she has no waistband, finding herself naked underneath the blankets. Her heartbeat thuds even faster, almost bruising against her ribs. She pushes herself up.

" Shhh….Ziva, stop." Strong hands grasp her shoulders, pushing her back against the pillows, the touch firm but gentle on her bare skin, the words a lilting lullaby tone. " I'm not going to hurt you. You're safe. Rest, nesholemeh, rest."

There is something in the voice that she recognises, that makes her feel obliged to obey. It doesn't help that even the brief moment of attempted resistance has robbed her body of whatever little strength her previous rest had garnered her. Sighing deeply, she half collapses against the soft bedclothes, still fighting exhaustion just enough to rub her eyes, forcing herself to concentrate.

A woman sits on the bed next to her, long dark curls falling over her shoulders and a small bowl of water resting on her knees. She stares with wide, brown eyes, tinged with concern, and a mouth that curls up in a smile as she notices Ziva's clearing gaze. A silver star of David shines at the hollow of her throat, and for Ziva, it is almost like looking in a mirror.

" Mariam."

It has been nearly three years since she has seen the other woman. As she lies still in the bed, she remembers hotels and swimming pools, and identical white robes: tacit understandings born of years of complicit childhood allegiances. Later, her brother's voice over a cell-phone, promises to meet in Paris. Watching a yellow cab disappear down a rain-drenched, DC street: the brunette woman its single, fated occupant.

Mariam's smile widens, and she lifts a hand up to briefly cup Ziva's flushed, feverish cheek. " I would ask what brings you to Russia, cousin, but from here it seems like a story you might need your full strength to tell."

Ziva blinks, her eyelashes brushing heavily on against her cheeks. She attempts to rubs her vision clear with the back of her wrist as she puts together the events of the last week. " I was…sent away. No, no, that is not…I came back." She is confused for a second and sighs deeply, frustrated with herself for her lack of coherence. " We fought, and he somehow…he had a knife. The street smelt like sawdust. It was dark and I did not see it in time. I did not act quickly enough." Agitated, she subconsciously moves her hand to rub at her thigh, which she then realises has been heavily swathed in clean, white bandages. She squeezes her eyes shut in an attempt to make sense of the fragmented memories.

The other woman, recognising her unease, presses the newly-dipped cloth once again against Ziva's forehead. " Don't worry about that now," she soothes gently, tucking unruly curls behind Ziva's ears and stroking her hair. " I'm just glad I was here to find you when I did. Do you remember what happened to the others?"

" Others?"

" On your mission."

She has brief memories of blood pools cooling on a desert floor, thick brown folders smacking down on a desk with a sickening thump, visions of humming computers and a ship coasting out beyond the horizon. Somehow, in her fever-addled mind, she knows this isn't quite the answer she is looking for.

She thinks for a further moment, then, " Deep cover." Scrunching her brow, she recalls, " I was meant to meet them." Her finger trails over the knot of the bandage, feeling out the shape of the rough material against her slick skin.

This is the first moment of clarity she has displayed, and Mariam's facial expression is clearly tinged with relief. Up to this point, Ziva's speech has been delirious and almost frightening. " Good. Where were you meant to meet them? Were you all in Russia?"

Ziva's head shake is vehement, though her words float in and out of making sense. " Not Russia…she's not in Russia any more. She's dead…and we drank all the vodka…and I killed her with my driving." Almost as if she knows this isn't the answer, Ziva presses the heels of her hands into her eyes hard enough that it makes her see stars. Finally, she spits out sense. " Not Russia. Kabul. I was in Kabul."

The bowl is in shattered pieces on the crooked floor before Ziva even realises that Mariam has stood. Water trickles along the floorboards, seeping into the cracks. Ziva stares as makes its little rivulets amongst the dust, and for a moment doesn't even realise that Mariam is speaking until she realises the other woman is shouting.

" Kabul!? He sent you to Kabul!? Alone? Is he a fool!?"

" Fool?" Ziva doesn't really following the conversation, and her echo has a faint quality of childishness to it.

Mariam throws her arms in the air, as though pleading for sense from the ceiling. " I swear it will only be the day when he is forced to light candles for all three of his children that he will see sense!" She stomps a foot on the floor, the sound thin and muffled thanks to her thick-socked feet. " He already drives you away from your home and now he tries to drive you into the afterlife and I will kill him if he thinks he will succeed!" Ziva knows that Mariam's temper has always been fast burning, and by the time she has stomped around the room, picked up the shattered remnants of the bowl and straightened the blankets over Ziva's legs, she has already calmed herself down.

Watching as Ziva struggles against a yawn, Mariam sighs and cups her cheek once again. Dropping a kiss to both cheeks, Mariam rests her forehead against Ziva's. " Sleep, cousin," she implores. " I will be here when you wake up. The more you sleep, the faster this sickness will work itself out of your body and you will be the Ziva I remember once again."

She doesn't need to reiterate the request, because by the time the words leave her lips, Ziva's eyes are already closed.


	8. Chapter 8

It is dark when she wakes again, but, despite the lack of light, things in her head seem much clearer

It is dark when she wakes again, but, despite the lack of light, things in her head seem much clearer. Pulling herself to sitting, her head only swims slightly, and she chances swinging her body around on the bed and settling her feet on the floor. Her lips feel like paper, but she waits for her heartbeat to calm before carefully standing, her balance like a toddler just beginning to walk. Hanging off of the roughly hewn bedstead, a light cotton robe flutters slightly in the ever-present breeze and picking it up, she wraps it carefully around her body. As she knots the sash tight at her waist, she realises that these last few weeks have caused her to drop weight she really didn't need to lose. Her hipbones cause shadows in the valley of her body, and her collarbone bites against her skin.

She can hear Mariam's familiar footsteps in the rest of the house, and so begins shuffling carefully towards the sound. She leans heavily against the wall, bumping her elbow by accident and feeling sharp pain against the fragile joint. Her head still pounds slightly, but her lips are dry, and she is aching for water.

Pushing the door open, she catches sight of Mariam pottering around the small, mostly bare kitchen, stirring something in a saucepan that bubbles happily and smells so appealing it makes Ziva almost groan. She wonders if she has done so out loud when Mariam whips her head around. " Ziva!" Dropping the spoon with a clatter against the side of the pan, she rushes to Ziva's side, sliding an arm around the unsteady woman's waist. " What are you doing out of bed?"

" I needed water," she explained, her voice a little hoarse when she finally uses it. Despite her returning strength, she allows Mariam to guide her into one of the mismatched kitchen chairs.

Mariam places a large glass of water in front of Ziva, and watches as she drinks it down almost desperately, both hands clutched around the glass. After every drop is gone, she fills the glass halfway again. " No more, or it will make you sick," she admonishes gently. " I was just making you soup," she explains, returning to the stove long enough to stir the mixture as it continues to simmer. " To help you build up your strength. You look like you haven't eaten in a month," she says pointedly.

Ziva answers honestly. " I feel like I haven't." Because it really seems years ago since her last real meal; she remembers vaguely letting Tony buy her pancakes at a small diner in LA, and McGee tossing her a wrapped sandwich-type-thing in the hours that followed, when eating was the last thing on her mind. Her stomach lets known its displeasure.

With a raised eyebrow, Mariam dishes up the food and slides the bowl across in front of Ziva. Handing her a spoon, she warns, " Take it slowly." She watches as her cousin carefully blows on the hot stew, raising the spoon to her lips and drinking it carefully. Dropping into the opposite chair, she allows her to get about halfway through the food before speaking again. " You feel like explaining what happened now? What were you doing in Kabul? Why aren't you in Washington?"

Ziva paused, allowing her time to gather her thoughts. Her face flickers slightly and her eyes flash dark, and Mariam can read the pain in her expression. Swallowing her mouthful with a ripple of her throat, Ziva finally raises her head. " My position in Washington was terminated."

Mariam looks concerned for a moment, and slightly suspicious, her curiosity piqued by Ziva's taciturn explanation. Though Ziva was often like this with some people, years of familial intimacy had meant that she had never been like this with Mariam. She guesses, " Your father called you back?"

" No."

Collecting up Ziva's empty bowl, Mariam drops it into the sink and begins running water over it. With her back to Ziva she asks, " I thought you were friends with their Director? She asked you to leave?"

She is surprised by Ziva's blunt response. " I was friends with their Director. She is dead."

Mariam spins on her heel, her arms falling limply to her sides. " What happened?"

" I allowed myself to become distracted," is Ziva's explanation, and though Mariam wants to push for more information, the closed expression on Ziva's face makes her stop.

Instead, she drops a hand to Ziva's shoulder, fleetingly. " I'm sorry."

Tight-lipped, Ziva nods her head. " As am I." Standing up from the table, she limps across the floor to stand at the window. Flicking aside the curtain, she stares out onto the street, watching the starlight filter down into the street. There is a long stretch of silence before Ziva speaks again, and when she does, the topic has seamlessly switched. " Your mission in Russia has come to an end?"

Mariam nods her head, smoothing her sweater with flick of her wrist, fingers brushing against soft, brushed cotton. " For now. I've been following a ring of weapons smugglers around Europe. Their next stop is expected in one of the Mediterranean ports within the next two weeks."

When Ziva replies, her voice is almost teasing, which belies her still shockingly pale face and previous consternation. " One of the Mediterranean ports? Next two weeks? Mariam, I thought you were in Intelligence." She lets the curtain drop, and looks back over her shoulder. " Have I been away so long?"

Dropping onto the arm of a threadbare chair, Mariam stares at her old friend. " It will most likely be in Spain, later this week." She pauses, winding a long curl around her finger. " And you have been away so long. You've never seen Kitra's baby."

" I heard she's beautiful."

" Looks just like her father. And did you hear that Raddai finally married Ahava?" Mariam pushes her curls back from her face. " And I always thought he only had eyes for you."

The space between them is punctuated with a small laugh. Turning her body carefully, Ziva folds her arms over her chest, the material of the robe swishing dangerously around her thighs. " She has had her claws in him since long before I left Tel Aviv," Ziva muses, her eyes alight with reminiscence of old friends. " Besides, I was never interested in being the wife of a Rabbi."

" It was a beautiful wedding." There is another pause until, " You haven't asked after Ezra."

Ziva doesn't bother to hide the rolling of her eyes nor the clear disdain in her words. " I assumed you would tell me if he was anything but well, yes?" Her voice is tinged with frustration, and the way she holds her body slightly too upright shows that fatigue is stealing over her once again. She seems rigid, hard. Seeing that Mariam still stares at her, she sighs. " How is Ezra? Still a self-righteous ben zsona?"

" Ziva!" Mariam's voice is aghast, but resigned, and she stares at the other woman from her place curled up in the chair. " He is my husband."

The slight curve of her eyebrow shows that this argument does not do much to sway Ziva's opinion. She leans heavily against the wall, deep breaths causing her chest to rise and fall almost vividly. " He has not been your husband since the day you lost Adina."

Ziva's words are sharp, and, as they have always been able to do, they find Mariam's weakest point and lay a sharp blow. The two women have fought this argument before, and Mariam knows it is pointless to waste breath on it, especially with Ziva weak and clearly fresh from grief. Instead, she swallows the little bubble of hurt that rises in her throat and looks at Ziva with eyes that are filmed with light dew. Ziva sees her cousin's face drop and instantly tries to recant. " Mariam I'm - "

" You should go back to bed," Mariam cuts in, unable to hear apologies at that moment. She keeps her eyes averted as she stands and walks from the room. At the door, she pauses. Without turning around, she hugs her arms around her middle and murmurs, " I know Adina was your niece. I know you loved her. And I know you never understood why I didn't marry Ari."

" Mariam - "

The slender brunette holds a hand up, effectively silencing her cousin. " He was her father, and I didn't marry him, and now she is dead and so is he. I am married to Ezra. He is a good man, and he is good to me. I know you will never understand that, and I don't ask you to. Just respect it."

With that, Mariam left the room, leaving Ziva standing, wishing for the fever back. She didn't think anything could feel worse then she did right at that moment.


	9. Chapter 9

When Ziva wakes the next morning there are clean clothes in her room and her weapons lay neatly on top of them

When Ziva wakes the next morning there are clean clothes in her room and her weapons lay neatly on top of them. Carefully pulling on the clothes, Ziva limps into the main room of the house. She finds Mariam, fully dressed, a selection of passports spread out on the table in front of her. Ziva considers apologising for her words the previous night, but her thoughts are cut short by Mariam's voice.

" We need to pick you an identity."

She is straight to the point, and her voice still holds a little of the wary hurt from the night before, but when she looks up, she makes eye contact with Ziva and holds out her hand. Pulling Ziva gently into the chair next to her, she explains," I have four identities. A little doctoring and you will easily pass for me."

The documents are a litany of colour. Carefully studying them, Ziva selects the dark red of the French passport. She traces her finger over the delicate gold appliqué. " Adeline Saurel."

Mariam holds up her own. " Claudette Leroux. Citizen of Canada." The picture inside is of her, long dark curls, tanned face, and a quirked half-smile. For a moment, Ziva is reminded startlingly of her childhood, where calls of a name-that-wasn't-hers would flitter through their yard at her retreating back.

" Flying?"

" It's quickest. From Spain you can contact your father."

Ziva shifts her eyes almost imperceptibly. " He won't want to hear from me."

" He'll want to know you're safe."

" You're the one who has said it Mariam – he will not care about my safety until long after it is too late. I have long since stopped allowing myself the delusion that he cares."

There is a pause. " You should still call him. He will at least be able to send documents so you can travel back to Israel under your own name." Mariam doesn't bother pressing the issue. She has known Ziva and her father far too long to believe that any void between them will be bridged by anything as simple as words.

Ziva's response is a stoic nod, and silence, and in the quiet, the two women set to work to forge their way out of Russia, and towards the sunny coast of the Mediterranean Sea.


	10. Chapter 10

" You are going

" You are going!"

" I'm not."

" You are."

" I'm not."

" Have you ever seen an 105lb non-com beat up on a grown man Sir? 'Cause I'm this close…" Ramona's voice echoes through the bulkhead from the other side of the door to Tony's quarters. He knows she will be standing with her arms folded across her chest, one hip cocked and a wholly frustrated look on her face. Perhaps even rolling her eyes, but that doesn't inspire him to move from his current position lying flat out on his bed, staring at the patterns of light on the ceiling. The Southern lilt seems much less melodic and much more brusque that usual as she pounds her fist against the door. " And don't you be thinkin' I can't break in there too Sir."

Pulling a pillow from under his head, Tony holds it over his face. He knows it's juvenile, but it muffles the sound of her voice, and silences the half-irritated-half-concerned tone that she's taken to using with him. The sympathy cloys at him.

There is the sound of a series of clicks, and a 'whoosh', and finally muted footsteps across the room. The pillow is ripped from his head without fanfare. He slowly turns over and lays on his side, facing into the room, a sigh on his lips.

" Beaches, babes, bikinis. Been there, done that. I don't need to go see the version en Espagnol." He is about to press him point further when he is stopped by the sight in front of him.

Midshipman Adler stands, hands on hips emphasizing sharp elbows and bony wrists, and annoyance painted in stark colours across her face. This, he regards as normal, but what he doesn't recognise is anything else about her. Instead of her fiercely tied back hair and well-tailored bland uniform, her body is draped in a sky blue cotton sundress, and her hair hangs mostly loose around her shoulders, the front held back by some almost jarringly feminine barrettes.

" Adler," he intones, honestly surprised, pulling himself to sitting. " You're a girl."

Other women might have considered the comment either an insult or a pickup, but Ramona regards it as neither. Instead, she simply grabs his hand and begins pulling him up with a strength that belies her size. " Yep, and this girl is gonna' get real ticked if you don't get out of this bed right now and get goin' out of here so I can start my Liberty." Once he is on his feet, she goes over to his locker and starts pulling out clothes. She tosses shirt after shirt at him, not caring that he doesn't even try to catch them. They go drifting to the floor like snowflakes. " Put something on. You can't go out on the town in your skivvies."

He is about to argue when a blue Hawaiian patterned shirt hits him in the face. The button somehow ends up ricocheting off his eye and he howls as he squeezes it shut. Scowling, one eyed, at the young woman, he bunches the shirt in his fist. " What exactly is your problem Adler?" His voice is sharper than he really feels, but his eye is stinging and he had been enjoying wallowing in his own self-pity before her interruption.

She doesn't even both noting his irritated expression. Instead, she just rolls her eyes and grabs a pair of tan cargo pants, throwing them like a rough-cotton missile. " Look, I get that you're in a bad place. I get that you don't want to be here and you're hurting. But we're in Europe Sir, and I haven't been off the ship in three months."

" I'm not stopping you." He tries to ignore the fact he can hear the pout even in his own voice.

She points at the clothes he is still holding. " Put them on." Ironically, it sounds like an order, and he steps into the pants with a disagreeable mutter. He knows she has heard it, because she crosses her arms over her chest. " Honestly Sir, how much fun do you think I'll have if I know you're just up here lyin' around feelin' all kinds of sorry for yourself?"

Pulling the shirt over his shoulders, he buttons the shirt up with an obvious sigh of protest. " Adler - "

It seems that he has pushed her as far as she'll go, because at the sound of her name, Ramona slams her hand down on the desk, stomping one foot on the floor. " No!" It would be insubordination with anyone else, but with him, it seems to be just the jolt he needs. Stepping up to be level with him, she wags her finger in his face. " If you're here, I can't leave! And I want to go to town! I want to walk down the cobbled streets and get sunburned, and drink too much red wine! I want to have sex damnit!"

His eyes fly wide, and he stammers in a very uncharacteristic way, shuffling backwards until the backs of his knees hit the bed frame. " Look, uh, I mean Adler, you're, uh, a nice girl and all but I, uh, I'm not - "

He stops speaking when the broken words are cut off by a peel of raucous laughter.

Adler braces herself with her palms on her pale knees, mirth causing tears to eek at the edges of her eyes. Her body convulses with giggles. She wipes them away with a flick of her wrist. " God, Sir, I didn't mean you!" She corrects, looking up from under her falling bangs, tumbling loose from the barrettes. Stepping forward, she pats him on the arm, amused sympathy obvious in her face.

He has yet to say anything, but his mouth gold-fishes, and his cheeks are tinged pink. " Yeah," he starts. " Yeah, I knew that."

Still trying to stifle her giggles, Adler leans back against the bulkhead with a deep breath, cocking her head to one side. " I mean, you're cute I 'spose Sir, but you ain't really my type." When he still says nothing, she continues. " I got an old friend who's drivin' from Madrid. A bit of a standing arrangement. Beneficial for the both of us – no strings and all." She isn't normally one to share so much about her private life, but she feels as though she almost has to say something just to fill the silence. Absently, she crouches down, picking up a few of the earlier abandoned shirts from the floor. She folds them against her body, stacking them on the desk in a neat pile. Finally, she stills her movements, looking over at him and pushing her hair back from her face with the back of he hand. " I want to be able to have a good time Sir. And I won't be able to if I think of you alone and feelin' so sad." There is a pause and then, " Please, Tony."

It is the plea in her voice, the way the hope resonates on the sound of his name that finally has him collecting up his things and moving through the ship. As he signs out with the Officer of the Watch, he can see Adler ahead of him, grin stretched wide across her face and waving maniacally as she skipped down the gangway and towards a waiting car. Tony can't make out the driver, but he shakes his head and smiles at the sheer exuberance of the scene.

Somehow, as he steps out onto Spanish land, he can't help but feel like he's finally accepting the hand he's been dealt, and is taking the first step into his new life.


	11. Chapter 11

The Mediterranean wind ruffles her hair, and she breathes it in deeply like a cure for her ills

The Mediterranean wind ruffles her hair, and she breathes it in deeply like a cure for her ills. It fills her lungs and winds around her body, and she feels more herself then she has for weeks. A sundress swishes about her knees, hiding the heavy bandage still wrapped around her thigh, and her curls tumble loose on her shoulders and down her back. Large sunglasses hide her eyes as she wanders around the docks, looking every bit a tourist with sandals laced up her feet and a camera held loosely in her hand.

In truth, her eyes behind the mirrored shade scan the moored boats with a shrewd eye for detail. Her eidetic memory takes in the faces of the rugged men who fill the waterside, their boats ranging from small, decrepit fishing vessels to large, modern technologically advanced sea-farers. In the distance, a grey monstrosity of a ship looms into the sky, its expansive deck taking up what seems like half the dock. She wonders if it is on this city-of-a-ship that their suspected smugglers are operating. Weapons and money somehow trading in and out of European ports, their destination the hands of those who would use them to attempt to destroy the country Ziva was duty-bound to protect.

" Seen anyone of note yet?" Mariam's voice is soft, whispered Spanish in her ear, and she almost starts at the sound. Ziva knows she is not quite back to her normal self when her cousin can sneak up on her unnoticed, something she had never in their past been able to master.

" Two ships sailing under Uraguay flags, one Senegal, one Norwegian. I have not covered all the way to the far end," she admits, casting a vague gesture towards to towering ship. " From the size I would estimate it is either American, Australian or British. I have seen no one who matches the photos."

Mariam's hair is pulled back from her face, and she fans herself lazily with her hand. " They will be here." Her eyes scan the horizon, staring out into the golden-sun distance. " I was in contact this morning with Officer Kazan," here, her voice drops to a barely audible whisper, and she rummages in her bag as though she is looking for something. " He is currently on operation in Naples, and was positive of this next rendezvous."

Ziva says nothing, but nods, and the two women continue to wend their way down the dock, their arms looped, looking to the unsuspecting as two normal women enjoying the sun and the sights of the port. Ziva tries not to let the pain in her leg become too obvious; though the swelling has gone down, the wound itself is still healing, and the pull of the skin makes for an aching amble. She forces her mind to push past it, keeping a watchful eye instead on the other people milling around.

As they reach the far end of the port, Ziva is distracted by the sight of a young woman running, full-tilt down the gang-plank of the ship and across the concrete. The sudden burst of movement puts her on edge for a moment, until she registers the almost child-like exuberance of the girl. Mousy hair flies around her face, and sandals snap with a thwack against the soles of her feet. Her pale face is illuminated with a wide grin. Ziva watches as the girl slides into a waiting car, and presses her lips against those of the person driving. Then she turns her eyes away from the obvious intimacy.

Her eyes are just drifting back towards the ship when she is jolted by a sharp pull to her elbow. Mariam's fingers tighten around her arm, and instantly she is on alert. Her eyes scan the vicinity, instantly cataloguing the best tactical defensive positions even before she has had time to think.

" Khachadorian," Mariam's voice hisses in her ear, the words breathed upon her cheek. " He is here exactly as we expected." Steering Ziva with a forceful pressing of her hip, the two women manoeuvre into the shadows. Crates are stacked around and it affords them a little temporary privacy.

Habitually, Ziva checks her weapons. Her knife is concealed at her waist, as always, but today instead of her gun resting at the small of her back, her smaller backup weapon is strapped to her good thigh. She fingers the cold metal absently. " How are you to proceed with you mission? The port is too crowded for a clean shot, but a more subtle approach - "

She is cut off by the feel of Mariam's hand on her shoulder. " Ziva, we are taking no shots that aren't with a camera." She shakes her head, pulling out a small camera and adjusting the zoom. " You are assisting in an Intelligence mission, not a mission for Komemiute. We register details, get evidence of the exchange. We do not interfere. And we definitely do not consider 'more subtle approaches'."

It is almost instinct to argue. These men sell weapons, move money and secure passage for their enemies. They are within range. Ziva herself has taken on much more difficult missions before. But the words fall from her lips even as she begins to form them. She knows Mariam is right – this is not her mission, and after everything that has happened, she isn't even sure if she can trust her own judgement. So instead of arguing, she nods.

" I will cover you while you get your information," she promises, moving to take up a position where she can overview the majority of their current stretch of port, while still being mostly out of sight. She does not take out her weapon, but her hand hovers over her thigh, and her reflexes are set on high.

For a moment, as she stands in the glistening sunshine, listening to the sounds of the lapping water and familiar calls of the port, while running a finger over the metal of her gun, she thinks of her father. The first time she had been to Europe she had been with him. He had taken her to Spain, France, and Italy. They had wandered museums and art galleries, and at the end of the trip they had gone to see the ballet in Rome. _For my dancing girl, _he had murmured as the curtain went up, the last thing she heard before she was enraptured by _Coppelia_. She had been twelve – a recent bat mitzvah – and at that point she had believed that the trip had signalled a new beginning for them.

How had she got here?

She is reminded of the last time she saw _Coppelia, _one stolen weekend two summers ago. She can practically feel the finely upholstered seats of the Kennedy Centre against her palms, and hear the music mingling with a whisper in her ear _– I better get rewarded for this later._

Her response, _You know, you may actually enjoy this, _had been met with a burst of quiet laughter, but as the performance went on, he had wrapped his fingers around hers and held tightly. She knows he thought she hadn't realised that she had spent the whole time staring at her instead of at the stage, taking in her face as she watched the dancers, but she couldn't find it in her heart to be annoyed with him. Later, when she asked, _So, what did you think? _he had answered with only one word.

_Beautiful._

" Where is your mind, cousin?"

When Ziva turns, Mariam is packing away her camera, already having completed her mission and ready to disembark. Her face is a mixture of curiosity and concern, and Ziva rues herself for being so obvious, but she can't help but answer honestly. " A thousand miles away."

Mariam has always had the good grace to be understanding, and so Ziva isn't surprised when she leans in and presses a kiss against her cheek. Her lips are warm. " You will go home soon," she reminds her, and the tone seems to Ziva as though the words should be comforting. She worries that going home will be the same as giving up; all the time she is out in the world, blowing in the breeze, she has some freedom.

To her, the concept of 'home' right now seems illusive. In her mind, she thinks of ear-splitting music and bouncing platforms, a stern glare mingling with the smell of sawdust and scotch, a warm cultured accent telling infinite tales. She thinks of super-glue, and reading stories about her-but-it-isn't-her, and the paradox of innocent intelligence. She thinks of girly magazines and jazz music, fighting over the pepperoni on the vegetable side of the pizza, of Bond movies and whisper soft kisses. Then, the words tumble from her lips.

" I don't know if I'll ever go home."

His feet echo on the concrete as he walks away from the ship. The sun beats down on his head and makes him squint. A movement ahead of him catches his eye: dark curls being tossed behind a slim, olive-skinned shoulder. A sway of hips. His breath catches.

Her feet echo on the concrete as she walks after Mariam. The sun beats down on her back and warms her skin. A sound from behind makes her turn: masculine, words, English. A name. Her name. Her breath catches.

" Ziva."

" Tony."

Later, she won't remember running. She won't remember ignoring the screaming pain as it laced up her leg. She won't remember Mariam calling her name after her, confused, panicked, desperate. The first thing she will remember is the touch of his hand on her skin, cupping her cheek, running through her hair as though to check she really was there. She will remember the desperate whisper of her name against her skin.

" I thought you were dead."

" I'm alive."

The words seem almost unnecessary: the touches, the breath mingling together as they stand almost nose to nose, the feel of fingers entwining speak testament to their existence. Staring at each other, everything else seems distant and fuzzy. She doesn't remember Spain, the smugglers or even Mariam. All she can think about is the coincidence of this moment.

_I don't believe in coincidences._


	12. Chapter 12

That Summer, he was usually the one who would lie awake for hours while she slept soundly next to him, sweat-glistening skin w

That Summer, he was usually the one who would lie awake for hours while she slept soundly next to him, sweat-glistening skin wrapped in cool cotton sheets. Unless broken by nightmares, her sleep, though limited in hours, was regular. He, on the other hand, would often lie awake until three or four, before giving up trying to coax dreams upon himself. Then, he would go and put a dvd on, and lay on the couch, the sound a quiet soothing murmur in the silence. She would often find him, finally passed out, when she got up to go for her run.

Two years seems to have changed a lot, because it is now she that remains awake in the darkness as he snores softly next to her. As he lays still, and finally, seemingly at rest, she traces a finger over the lines of his face. She has never been a sentimental person, but something about this summer, and the apparent vagrancy of fate has made her feel like taking the time to make a recollection is worth it, so she recites him to her eidetic memory.

Her eyelids are just beginning to droop, lashes beating slowly against her cheeks when the sound of a dull buzzing stirs her from almost-sleep. Pushing herself upright, it takes her a few moments to locate the sound. Tony's cell phone lies on the floor amidst his clothes, and as it rings, it lights up the room in a faint blue glow. Sliding from between the sheets, Ziva grabs his discarded shirt and the cell in one smooth movement, shucking the shirt over her shoulders and reading the neon display.

Gibbs.

Though she is mostly naked, wrapped only in the unbuttoned shirt of her former partner, she flips open the phone and brings it to her ear.

" Shalom, Jethro."

Any other time, his silence – speechlessness – would have amused her. But today, as she wends her way out of the bedroom and out onto the balmy balcony, she desires only to hear his voice. To get back some semblance of normality.

After a beat, she gets her wish. " We gotta' tie a bell around your neck," he begins, a mocking reprimand, though she can hear the relief in his voice. " You forget Rule number three?"

" I have my knife."

There is a sound on the other end of the phone that she thinks is him stifling a laugh, but it only lasts for a second. " That's number nine. 'Never be unreachable'." He pauses again, a characteristic Gibbs tactic for buying time. " You know you've had Abby worried sick?"

She can't help but smile as she slinks into one of the wrought iron chairs, the pre-dawn air still warm and comforting against her bare legs. " I would like to say it won't happen again…" she trails off, staring over the sleeping city, unable to voice promises she knows she won't be able to keep.

Gibbs doesn't press her to finish, because he knows as well as she does that any assurances would be hollow. Instead, he switches tacks. " DiNozzo there?"

" He is sleeping."

" I don't suppose it's worth me asking how he found you?"

" We found one other, actually."

Four wives and countless relationships between have meant that Gibbs does not have to imagine how Ziva came to be answering Tony's phone in the middle of the night. In fact, as they speak, the new evidence trickles through memories of past events, and it is as though a new light is shining on them. The softness of Ziva's voice, the confidence, the comfort speaks volumes in the silence.

This isn't new.

At the realisation, he feels for a moment he should be angry, except he has recently become very familiar with the lingering ache of the affects of following Rule Twelve. In his mind, he takes a large swipe at the regulation, rendering it deceased. It seems fitting.

Finally, he speaks again. " Where are you?"

" Barcelona," is the clipped response, as though she expects a reprimand, but the tone soon softens when it fails to materialise. " The _Reagan _docked for leave as I arrived in the city on some…business. A well-time accident occurred."

She can hear the click-clacking of a keyboard in the background, and realises he is still at work. Easily, she can imagine him stretched at his desk, phone held to his ear and his free hand hunt-and-pecking at the scattered letters. " This was _official _business, Officer David? 'Cause I've spent the last few weeks fielding calls from a very pissed Director of Mossad who expected your butt in Israel three months ago."

Surprise is really her first reaction – both that it had been so long since her mission had begun, and that her father had cared about her absence enough to search so doggedly for her. " I was…forced to divert from my original mission," she admits, a little shame still lingering in the corner of her voice for the fact that she had somehow let herself be overwhelmed.

She knows he must recognise the tone enough to read between the lines, because his question is pointed but gentle. " You hurt much?"

" Nothing that will not heal."

" Good. What about DiNozzo?"

" No visible scars. And the invisible ones will fade with time." She thinks it should be strange to be talking about Tony in such a manner, but this is _Gibbs. _Gibbs, who she has never been afraid of even when wisdom would have told he she should be. Gibbs, who had loved and lost more times then anyone should have to.

" They always do." There is a long pause, and then with something that is half tease, half gruff, Gibbs clears his throat. " I take it you'll keep this out of the office?" There is no reason for either to clarify which 'this' he speaks of.

Stretching her legs out in front of her, she wiggles her toes in the balmy air. Tipping her head back, she almost laughs, " I would think 6000 miles would be far enough 'out of the office' even for you, Gibbs."

" 6000 miles?"

" Washington to Tel Aviv. Of course, Tony will be at sea, so his distance is somewhere between."

Gibbs' silence runs so long, that Ziva almost feels like checking that he is still on the phone. But her training wins out, and she remains silent also until he speaks. " Why exactly do you think I'm calling David?"

Cocking her head, curls tumble over Ziva's shoulders. " I assume it is not social."

" It's not. I'm calling to tell you to get your butts back to Washington. Break's over."

His eyes blink heavily as he hears the balcony door slide open with a swish, and slide shut again. In the middle-of-the-night quiet, he can make out the sound of Ziva's gentle footsteps as she pads across the room. He expects her to slide into the bed in the careful, controlled manner that she usually does when she thinks he is asleep, so he is surprised when he feels her hands run up his side to trace his ribs in an action that is half-tickle, half-poke.

" Tony!" Her voice is insistent, and he can hear the smile even though he cannot see it.

" Ziva…" he murmurs into the pillow, grasping her wrist and pulling her down so she lies half on top of him. " It's the middle of the night. Go to sleep. I only have one more day of Liberty."

Pressing a kiss to his cheek, she sighs into his ear in a way that makes him shiver, the smooth path of goose-bumps making the way up his spine. " Liberty's over Tony."

Opening his eyes so he can watch the way she arches her body against him, he drinks in the image for a long moment before shaking his head. " One more day Ziva, don't wish it away. I'm gonna' be spending the next who-knows-how-long on a boat in the middle of the ocean, miles away from you." Without warning, he flips them over so she is pinned under his body as he presses kisses along her collarbone and up her graceful neck.

Normally one to fight back when he does this, he is almost surprised when her only reaction is to wrap her arms around him and start to laugh.

" Something funny Officer David?"

" I am wondering how long it will take you to become bored of me."

Pulling back from her, he raises an eyebrow, clearly confused. " Bored of you? I know I have a short attention span, but I don't think I'll be able to get bored of you in a day. With all your crazy ninja secret agent stuff, I think it would take at least a couple months."

Smiling in a way that is both alluringly mysterious and slightly worrying, Ziva leans up and presses a long kiss against Tony's lips, in a way that means when she pulls back, his head swims just slightly. " I am glad to hear that." Propping herself up on her elbows, she finally admits, " Gibbs called."

" Oh yeah? What did the Boss-man say?"

Her words somehow are mixed with hot, open-mouthed kisses, so that they reverberate around his head instead of around the room. Only later, when they lie once again entangled in the sheets and in one another, does he finally register what she said. It's as though a crushing weight has been lifted from his body, as though his lungs are finally taking in enough air. His limbs feel light, and a warmth spreads across his skin. He finds he can't stop the smile creeping across his lips, even as he slips into dreams.

" He said we're going home."


End file.
